October 8, 2006

Glynn Cardy

Feast of St. Francis     Mark 10:2-16

“Beware of the God” reads the bright red sign outside our church. The kennel beneath it and the subscript advertising the upcoming animal service give the sign its context. Adults and children smile as they pass by.

Our detractors also love it. “Ah,” said one chap last week grinning at the thought, “at last, a theological health warning outside St Matthew's.” He thinks visitors should be wary of the God within.

I agree with him. The God we worship here is not safe, and will not make you safe.

The late James K. Baxter was one of my spiritual mentors. As well as being among our country's foremost poets, Hemi combined his understandings of Maori and Catholic spirituality with a potent blend of compassion and justice.

One of his more difficult pieces comes from the Jerusalem Daybook:

“[God] is my peace, my terror, my joy, my sorrow… but not my security… Who is harsher than this God of ours? The God they imagine, and pray to very often in the churches, is a God of sugar compared to the terrible One who grips our living entrails… I would not advise any [person] to follow that One.”

As Hemi goes on I find myself both repelled and challenged by this image of God. I am repelled by the notion of a God who destroys, who terrorizes, who frightens, and who practices a random morality. Yet at the same time I know this is theological experience of many, not least Abraham and Jeremiah.

What challenges me is the deep Hebraic truth that God cannot be contained or tamed by our desires to have an orderly, secure, and predictable life. What Christianity often does to God is what the Governor of California in the 1970s, Ronald Reagan, tried to do to the Redwoods, namely make them into lounge furniture. That which is wild, wonderful, and free is an affront to our worst managerial instincts. It needs to be cut down, domesticated, and made into something comfortable to sit on and sip our coffee.

Proponents of Christianity throughout the ages have tried to keep God under control by creating fences out of the Bible, the Creeds, synods, clergy, hymns, and liturgies. Yet, as Baxter reminds us, they need to be aware of who and what they are dealing with. For God continually breaks out of our constructs and language - popping up in others' holy texts, speaking through social and political outcasts, refusing to favour any one race, religion, or sexual orientation, and generally being a darn nuisance to those who like decency and order. Be aware, this God is not safe.

If you want to judge a religion firstly judge how many constraints it puts upon God. Then judge the religion by its mercy. The untameable God who pushes us beyond our boundaries has always and continues to prod and shove us towards the exercise of mercy and compassion.

Jesus was a reforming Jew who rebelled against love being turned into legalism. His ministry was one of constant and unbridled compassion. This is the context of our Gospel reading today. In a society where women had few rights marriage gave them protection. Yet their husbands if they took a fancy to some other woman could divorce them at whim. Jesus' comments need to be understood as siding with the vulnerable, namely married women.

Of course we know that marriage can also be a place of violence and oppression. Nowadays the ability to divorce allows a way out. Biblical legalists however have taken Jesus' words and used them to judge those whose marriages end. Words originally meant to support the vulnerable have been turned to condemn the vulnerable.

Every religion needs to examine its beliefs to see whether they encourage adherents to be more or less merciful, more or less tolerant, and more or less compassionate. This is the touchstone of faith: does your church make you kinder? Does your church make the world a kinder place? And if it doesn't my advice is to ditch your church and go looking for God.

Kindness and compassion led St Francis of Assisi well beyond his comfort zone. There is a story told of Francis [1] and a savage wolf. The citizens of Gubbio were wary and frightened to venture beyond the city walls. Francis, both compelled by and trusting in God, went out alone to meet this wolf. The brute appeared. Francis made the sign of the cross and spoke, calling the beast “Brother Wolf” and telling him off for all the suffering he had caused. The wolf, having made ready to pounce, became very quiet, and in the end lay at Francis's feet. The tradition records that “[the wolf from then on] lived in the city ...and was fed by the people ...and never a dog barked at him, and the citizens grieved... at his death from old age.”

Let us note that, firstly, Francis was pushed by God to confront his fears. He ventured out, beyond where it was safe. Beware of the God. Secondly, Francis engaged with the wolf that others both feared and excluded. Risky behaviour. Thirdly, he brokered a deal that was of mutual benefit to both the wolf and the townsfolk, and built a lasting connection between them.

There was another solution available to the citizens of Gubbio: hire a hunter to kill the wolf. Time and again this has been what humans have done. Rather than befriend our fears we have killed that which has threatened us. It has led to the depletion and extinction of many animal species. It has led to many wars and generations weaned on hatred. The story of the Wolf of Gubbio, on the other hand, invites us into building relationships of trust and mutuality with those we fear.

There are similar Francis stories around poverty and sickness – like when he hugged a leper; and around enemies and Islam – like when he visited the Sultan of Babylon. Each of these stories is about Francis being pushed by God beyond the limits of safety to embrace humans or animals others were frightened of and wished to exclude or destroy.

Our actions towards animals, or towards those who are labelled as deviant or different, or towards those with little status or power, or towards those of other religions or none… is the measure of our faith. This is not an easy or comfortable faith. Frequently you will find yourself consigned to the theological dog house. By siding with outsiders you become an outsider yourself. Then beware everything changes. Ask James K. Baxter. Ask Francis. Ask Jesus. Ask God.

[1] Almedingen, E.M. Francis of Assisi: A portrait, The Brodley Head: London, 1967.